Post Hypnotic
by foxontherun
Summary: An old friend asks McGee and the team for help finding her kidnapped father. Unfortunately, it is a case of easier said than done, especially when the CIA starts running interference.. . sort of McGee-centric.
1. Chapter 1

_**Author's Note**__: This is my first NCIS fic. I've only written one other fic, and it's for Law and Order: Criminal Intent. It took me about a year to write and is around 35,000 words, so you've been warned—I'm long winded and slow. But I hope you stick with me. I love NCIS. In particular, I love the great chemistry between the characters (although I do admit to loving McGee the most). With that said, I'll write as fast as it comes to me!_

_**Disclaimer**__: I'm an unemployed, just-graduated college graphic designer. If I owned NCIS, I'd be on a sunny island somewhere with a strong tv signal, plenty of mangos and an infinity pool. But since I don't, I live with my parents. In Boston. So don't sue me!_

//

Sarah McGafferty stood by the window, waiting for her father to wander out into the moon-drenched back garden. She did this every night. It had been six months since she moved back in with her dad. Six long, emotionally exhausting months. She was, by nature, a nurturing person, but she was also barely 25. She didn't feel like a fully-formed adult, yet, much less the kind of person who was able to take care of someone who's mind was failing so fast.

In her head, she had always compared her father to a retired Navy battleship. Thick-sided, tough, and intimidating. Yes, she loved him, but truth be told, ever since she was a little girl she had thought of him as "Captain" (with a capital C, always), and not really as "daddy." He had retired when she was 15, to take better care of her and her Mom, who was already diagnosed with cancer back then (cancer with a little c, always, because even when she was fifteen, she had still somehow believed, with all her heart, that her father, the Captain, could take on her mom's cancer in a fight, and win.)

She had lost her mom a year ago, and had moved back in with her Dad, ostensibly to keep him company, but mostly because she was worried about him. She had recieved several phone calls in the months preceding the move. Once, her Dad had been found wandering the street in full navy dress-whites, mumbling to himself. Once, a neighbor had reported not seeing him for almost a week. Highly unusual behavior for Dad, who's daily personal shedule you could normally set your clock by. Up at 6, brisk walk for an hour, breakfast, read the paper, work on his boats, lunch, another walk, etc.

He was an impossible bottle enthusiast. Ships in bottles. It seemed that even if he couldn't be commanding a real ship anymore, he had to at least be in charge of a miniature fleet, all of them floating sturdily in his study, flags flying high. She had always found this hobby endearing. It took some of his rougher edges off. She remembered as a kid running in and hopping on his lap while he was sitting, more often than not staring into space, his little tools laid out in front of him. He would always take off his gold-rimmed glasses and give her a kiss on the cheek. She remembered loving him the most when he was in there, tinkering.

Now she watched as a figure silhouetted in the light from the back porch. Here he came. He always tried to wander out at this time, barely before midnight. Sometimes he would be talking to himself, saying unintelligble things. He never recognized her, when she went out to retrieve him, bring him back into the kitchen, to make him warm milk and tuck him in. A lump rose in her throat. How could things go so badly, so fast? Six months ago he had seemed ok—a little distracted, but still himself. Now he just stared at her with eyes like dull marbles. Muttering. Christ, he was only 66. The doctor's had said early onset Alzheimer's. She shook her head, firmly, and stood up to go downstairs to bring her Dad back inside, pushing the sadness back. She wasn't going to let the Captain see her cry. Not even if he would never remember it.

She never saw the figure behind her in the darkness. The blow was so hard that she felt the curtain of reality skid to one side, as if someone had yanked a movie projector out of whack. Then, darkness came rushing in. Then, nothing.

//

_A few days later…_

It was the end of a long, hard case. _Be honest with yourself_, _Tim,_ he thought. Weren't they all long and hard, recently? It had been a serial rapist, focusing on army wives. He had turned out to be a SEAL washout, angry at the Navy for percieved injustices, and trying to prove his manhood. There had been a brief firefight when he had been found. McGee had felt as he always did during gunfire—as if someone had injected him with amphetamines. And afterwards, numb, sluggish, drained_. It's not like I'm any help in a fight, as it is_, he thought_. I always just stand there with my gun aimed, shouting "Federal Agents," like a moron, while Tony and Ziva kick ass._ He shrugged off the depression that was threatening to settle on his shoulders. _Buck up_, he commanded himself sternly. Abby had invited him to a show later on, some band called Kinetic Dimension, a screaming, head-banging monstrosity that had, of all things, an electric violinist, who was a friend of hers. He hadn't had the heart to turn her down at the time, he had still been keyed up and unsettled. When were these things going to get easier? He had been a field agent for some time now, but he still fell to pieces after a little bit of gunfire.

He reached the door to his apartment and fumbled around for a second before locating his keys. He was just going to go inside, make himself a bowl of soup, and call to cancel on Abby. It was a wimp move, waiting to call her and cancel instead of doing it in person, but he really hadn't felt up to it. He heard a soft rustling of footsteps behind him, and jerked around. The woman he saw there was a mess. She had a few butterfly bandages on her head, just at the hairline, and a huge bruise that looked relatively fresh extending from her temple to just below her jaw. For all that, she was young and extremely pretty, and there was something familiar about her…

"Tim?" She asked, in a voice that was just above a whisper. "Tim is that you?"

"Uh….yeah," he squinted at her, trying to place her. She looked at the ground, and then up again, and he was startled to find that her eyes were swimming with tears.

"Hey, Tim," she said in that same soft voice. "I'm sure you don't remember me. Why would you? I wouldn't remember me either. But my Dad, he…" her voice wavered a little. "He still talks…talked about you. Like he was proud."

He was still squinting at her. Some vague memory from his past, from the old neighborhood flitted through his mind.

"Sarah?" He asked, grasping for a name. "Tom McGafferty's daughter? Is that you?" She smiled a little at this. She really was very pretty.

"You remember," she said. "Good." And then she started sobbing in earnest.

//

They sat in McGee's living room as he poured her a cup of coffee. Her sobs had petered out after a few minutes, but she looked drained, and Tim noticed her take a bottle of painkillers out of her pocket and dry-swallow a few.

"What happened, Sarah?" He asked as he sat down across from her.

"I'm sorry to be dumping all of this on you," she said, and her voice was a little stronger than it had been before, like a girl getting over initial shyness. "I know I haven't seen you in, oh, 17 years or so." She smiled wrily. "I admit I don't even remember you very well. I was pretty young when we lived next door. But Dad. Dad remembers..remembered you." The tears came back, a little. "I'm sorry about your Dad, by the way."

McGee was a little touched by this. His Dad had passed away several years ago, but up until then he and Tom McGafferty had remained close friends, regardless of the distance between them. They talked on the phone every week, and, yes, he did remember now his Dad mentioning to him when Sarah had gone to college in Maryland. 'You two should get together,' he had said, but Tim, newly a field agent, hadn't followed that up. He was busy and anyways, what would a 19 year old girl want with him hanging around?

"Thanks, Sarah," he said. Then, carefully, "How _is_ Tom, by the way?" He had noticed her uncomfortable use of the past tense, the way the mention of her dad seemed to bring on her tears. She bit her lip.

"Look," She said, "I know you're an NCIS agent. Dad told me. I didn't…I mean, you know, he was crazy about the Navy, but I never bothered to look up what that really meant. I sort of figured it was like the FBI. But." She stopped, and bit her lip again, twisting her fingers together. Then burst out, "You have to help me, Tim. No one believes me! I mean, they all just act like he wandered off! And maybe he did, but the police are just treating him like some senile old man. And they keep saying they don't have time for my calls. And— "

Tim put a hesitant hand out to rest on her arm, relaxing a little when she didn't flinch away. "Wait, Sarah, what happened? Did something happen to Tom?"

Sarah looked at him with a miserable, scared face.

"Dad was kidnapped, Tim," she said. "He was kidnapped and no one is going to do anything about it."

//


	2. The Agency

_A/N: Chapter two! By the by, I haven't decided if there's going to be any romance in this one, but if there is, it'll be McAbby, and I'll warn you ahead of time. Please review!_

//

A few hours later..

"Probie, if you made us come in just because your girlfriend's old man went on a bender for a few days, I swear I'm going to end you," Tony said, rubbing his temples. "I have a four-alarm fire in my head, and I'm missing a late-night screening of 'The Pink Panther.' Classic slapstick comedy. Peter Sellers."

"Ok, one, she's not my girlfriend, and two, I trust her judgement on this, Tony," McGee said adamantly.

"Of course she's not your girlfriend, Probster," Tony said, eyes still closed, "I was kidding about that part. Not kidding about the part where I'm going to kill you, though."

"Leave McGee alone," Ziva piped up, encouragingly, from behind her desk. "He knows enough so that he would not bring us all in on a whim. Plus," she said, wiping a hand over her face, "he looked like he was going to fall over on his feet when he left here. He would not be back so soon if he did not have to be."

"Thank you, Ziva," McGee said. "Believe me, Tony, I'd rather be asleep right now."

"That goes for all of us, McGee," Gibbs said, breezing past them and getting settled in his chair. "What do we have?"

"Sarah McGafferty was attacked in her home three days ago, boss," MgGee said, flipping to a picture of the scene on the plasma. "She lives with her father, a retired vet, Tom McGafferty. He's…" McGee trailed off, and started again. "He's got early onset Alzheimer's. She takes care of him. She says that just before she got attacked, she saw someone follow her father out into the garden. She hasn't seen him since."  
"What did the local LEOs conclude?" Gibbs was giving McGee an uncomfortable stare.

"They…" McGee looked down at his desk. "They're looking for him, but the search is tapering off. They're saying he wandered off and Sarah…that the blow to her head affected her memory. The case is being shelved."

Gibbs was still staring at McGee, making him acutely aware of the unstable credibility of the case. He was putting his ass out in the wind for this. He hoped to God there was something to back him up.

"Ok," Gibbs nodded and stood up. "Where's this witness?"

"Conference room, boss."

//

Upon Gibbs entering the room, Sarah's head jerked up. She looked distinctly uncomfortable, her hands clasped tightly together, the bruise on her cheek looking vividly purple in the unflattering light of the spare room. She bit her lip.

"You're Agent Gibbs?" She asked, before Gibbs could get a word out.

"I am," Gibbs said, not unkindly. Tim noticed that Gibbs' demeanor always changed around girls this age. Probably because of his own daughter. "What can you tell me about your father's kidnapping?"

Sarah's body relaxed slightly, hearing it referred to as a kidnapping. Tim's body did too. "Um," she said, for a moment so stymied by the fact that she wasn't talking to curt local cops who didn't believe her, that she couldn't spit out the story. "My father is a retired Captain. The USS Essex. He was in the Navy for most of his adult life," she said. "Earlier this year he started displaying the symptoms of early onset alzheimer's. Forgetfulness. Mumbling to himself. He wasn't so bad, most of the time. He usually remembered me. But for the last month every night at the same time he's taken to wandering out into the garden. I always get him and bring him back inside, but if I wasn't there…it just seems like he would wander off into the darkness. I guess that's what the cops think happened. But I swear, I saw someone outside, just before I was hit. Someone coming to..it looked like he was coming to meet my dad. Outside my garden gate. But I only saw an outline..and then someone knocked me down. Our safe was cleaned out. The cops are calling it a robbery. But I don't think it was. I think that's just a…a misdirect."

Gibbs, Ziva, and Tony had all been silent during this story. The only sound was Tim's nervous shifting in his seat. Gibbs cleared his throat.

"Why do you think someone would kidnap your father?"

At this, Sarah looked down, and to the left. "I…I don't know." Tim's brow furrowed a little. _She's lying. Why?_

"Has a ransom demand been made?" Gibbs pressed a little harder.

"No," Sarah said, staring firmly at her hands.

"Ms. McGafferty, there has to be some reason you think your father has been taken."

No answer. Tim started to sweat a little.

"Sarah," he said, his voice sounding a little creaky. "You have to tell us, if you want us to help you."

A shudder passed through Sarah's body, and Tim could tell she was near tears again. "I don't know," she started, and then tried again, "I dismissed it as just…an old man's ramblings. He wasn't in his right mind. I don't know…what's real anymore."

"Sarah," Tim said again, his voice steadier. "You can trust us. Just tell us what you know."

Sarah looked up at him, and then at Gibbs, with eyes that were shrouded with tears. "He said…he said that the Agency was coming to get him…again. That he had to finish his mission for them…before they killed him."

//

_A/N: Sorry this chapter took so long in coming. I've had NCIS writer's block like crazy._


	3. Project ARTICHOKE

_A/N: I don't know why the CIA is so fun to pick on._

//

There was a thunderous silence in the room. Gibbs' eyes widened just a bit, Tony stared, and Ziva looked stone-facedly at the girl sitting in the chair. Unfortunately, it was Tony who broke the silence.

"The Agency. You mean the CIA? You think the CIA kidnapped your Dad?" He asked, the disbelief evident in his voice.

Sarah looked at him stolidly. "I know it sounds crazy. That's why I was hesitant to tell you. But there's something to it."

"Go on," Gibbs prodded, his voice gentle.

"My Dad. He was a student in the 50s. He…he never talks about what happened, but I got my Mom to talk about it once. When she was dying. It was a long year. And she told me once that he had participated in…something. An experiment. Done by the CIA. He had just wanted to help his country. He never talks about it. Except in his sleep. I hear him moaning. They kept him for over two months. I don't know what they did. But I know that every night he tells them to stop. In his sleep."

Sarah's head dropped, and her shoulders began to shake. Tim got up an went to her, putting a hand on the back of her neck.

"Sarah," he said softly. "It'll be okay. We'll get to the bottom of this."

He was trying to be soothing, but even in his mind, he had to wonder. Could it really be true?

//

"There's something else," Sarah said as she was getting up to go. "I'm not sure if it's relevant, but it might be. When I was about 13, a man showed up to talk to Dad. He said his name was Scott Olson. I remember that, because whatever he said to Dad got him…upset. You have to understand, my Dad wasn't big on, uh, showing his emotions. But after Scott left, he went out for 2 days. Drinking. And Dad wasn't a big drinker. I looked up Scott Olson on the internet. He's the son of Frank Olson." Sarah stopped. The color was gone from her face, leaving the bruise in sharp relief. "Frank Olson died under mysterious circumstances after participating in a CIA experiment. Project ARTICHOKE. It's well documented. They said he committed suicide, but there's evidence that he was unconcious when he was thrown out of a window. The CIA. They had been dosing him with LSD. To try to find some kind of truth serum." She stopped. Took a breath. "Anyways, that's what the internet says. I'm not sure how reliable a source that is."

"Thank you for your cooperation," Gibbs said, standing. "We might need more information from you, so please…"

"I'll be here, Agent Gibbs," Sarah said firmly. "I wouldn't go anywhere. I want my father back."

Gibbs nodded curtly at that, trying to quash the emotions that were entangling his insides. Every time. Every. Damn. Time. He was getting better at controlling his emotions around girls who reminded him of Kelly, but every encounter tore a little furthur into his heart. He resolved to help this girl. No matter what.

Tim watched the interaction between Gibbs and Sarah with interest. He was honestly relieved. He hasn't wanted to admit it to himself, but he was worried that his team wouldn't believe Sarah's story. And that was before he had heard about the CIA angle. His dealings with the CIA had been brief, but he knew how Gibbs felt about the impassive Agency personnell they'd had to deal with in the past. And he knew how he felt, hacking into the CIA. He'd felt creeped. Like he was pulling the veil aside and looking at the secrets behnd a black wall. He felt sure he was going to have to do it again, for this case, and he was a little scared. _Face, it, Timmy. A lot scared_. The CIA was a faceless, nameless ghost. And he didn't particularly want to make that ghost angry.

He caught up to Sarah as she was waiting for the elevator.

"Hey," he said a little breathlessly.

"Hey Tim," she smiled at him wanly. "Thanks for everything. I don't know what I would have done without you."

"Listen, Sarah," Tim said. "If you don't want to go back to your house, which is understandable, you could…stay at my place. I can take the couch."

Now Sarah gave him a genuine smile. "Thanks, Tim. I'm staying with friends from college, but maybe…we could get dinner?"

Tim's ears turned a little red. "I'd like that," he said. Unable to keep a smile off his face.

As Sarah got in the elevator, Tim was still revelling in the little encounter, when a slap to the back of his head made him jump a mile.

"Hey, McSmooth-Talker," Tony said. "You finished hitting on our witness?"

"Ha ha, Tony," Tim said sourly.

"McGee!" Came Gibbs' irritated shout. "Get in here and start—"

"Looking up Scott Olson's whereabouts. On it boss," Tim said, hurrying to his desk.

Tim felt Tony's presence following him.

"Tony…" he said warningly.

"Hey, Probie, she's cute," Tony said, grinning. "Gonna take on the entire CIA just to get a date?"  
"Tony, wouldja STOP?" Tim was at the end of his rope. It was 1:00AM, he was exhausted, and he couldn't stop thinking about the job ahead. Kidding around wasn't currently on his mind.

"Ok, ok," Tony said, sounding mock-hurt. "Just let me know when you close the deal, ok? I bet it's before we can find any evidence that some spook kidnapped an old senile guy to stop him from talking about some experiment from 50 years ago."

"DiNozzo!" Gibbs was striding towards him. "I want everything we can find on Project ARTICHOKE."

"Gotcha, boss," Tony said, and was turning obligingly around when Gibbs smacked him, hard, upside the head.

"And we're going to take this seriously," Gibbs said, softly.

"Gotcha, boss," Tony said, head stinging.

//

_A/N: Project ARTICHOKE is, unfortunately, real. I will explain more in the story, it will get explored, and you can google it to find out any information you want. It's haunting. Totally creepy._


	4. Frank Olson

_A/N: Ahh, the CIA. Shady dealings. _

//

The man sitting in the darkness sighed and shifted his shoulders. _I'm too damn old for this crap_, he thought to himself, as the light from the lamp behind him suddenly blared on. He looked at the screen in front of him, and saw himself reflected there as all others had seen him in the past and would see him in the future—a shadow figure, wreathed in darkness, identity masked by the back lighting. Nameless and featureless. That's who he was. That's how everyone knew him. Sure, he had a wife and kids, but they thought that their husband and daddy woke up every day to go to work as a Pentagon systems analyst. They would never know the real him. No one would. That's how he could keep his job. That's how he could stay alive. He gave a rueful smile into the darkness, remembering how green he had been at the start of his career. He was so lost in thought that his phone shrilled twice before he clicked on the transmission.

"Special Agent Cassidy," the tinny, electronic voice came as the agent on the other line sat down in front of the camera.

"Special Agent Frost," he acknowleged.

"Project JONAS is slightly ahead of schedule," Agent Frost was looking at the obscured figure on the other side of the screen.

"And subject 42?" Cassidy asked, blandly.

"Still no sign of him. He's gone completely off-grid. I—" Frost cleared his throat. "I wouldn't have believed it."

"Yes, well," Cassidy's dry voice came, "The old man is more, shall we say, _resourceful_, than we had suspected."

"We still don't know what he's planning." Frost sounded tired. Cassidy didn't blame him. Project JONAS had been one hell of a pain in the ass. Cleaning up a 50 year old mess was harder than expected.

"We have some idea," Cassidy murmured. "Surveillance is up, I trust?"

"24-hours a day, rotating shifts."

"Good. Tap into the chatter. See if you can't find him in any of the usual places."  
"And if that doesn't work?"

"Try the unusual places, then, Frost." Cassidy smiled into the camera, knowing full well that the other man couldn't see it.

"There's another problem," Frost said after a minute. "The girl. She's brought this matter to the attention of NCIS."

"Leon?" He asked, his voice sharper.

"No," Frost said. "You remember that young man who caused a ruckus here a while back by tapping into our system?"

"I do indeed," said Cassidy thoughtfully. "He had quite some skill."

"Agent…" Frost flipped through some pages. "McGee. She brought the matter to his attention, and he brought the matter to Agent Gibbs."  
"Wonderful," said Cassidy.

//

McGee woke up with a start, his brain still fumbling around in that awkward state between sleep and waking. It took a moment for his eyes to clear. Oh great. He was still in the office. He had been asleep for two hours, and his head felt like it had been used as a kickball. _I love my job_, he reminded himself.

Quickly he scanned his computer for the results of his search. Noting everything that had some up, he looked over at Gibbs' desk, ready to start his report. The desk was empty. As was Ziva's. Only Tony remained, snoring slightly, head pillowed on his arms.

Tim took a moment to review what he had learned. As he was double-checking his work, Gibbs strode by his desk and dropped a huge stack of files right next to DiNozzo's sleeping head.

Tony's head jerked up.

"Morning, boss," he said, blinking up at him.

"Project ARTICHOKE, DiNozzo," Gibbs said.

Tony stretched his arms. 'Project ARTICHOKE, precursor to the MKULTRA experiments," he said, yawning. "CIA mind-control bid during the cold war. Lots of shady practices and blacked-out memos, but there are well-documented cases of researchers using hypnosis, electroshock treatments, and drugs such as LSD and morphine in order to take a subject and make them act against their will, and then remove the memories of their actions." He stopped for a second. "Real life Manchurian Candidate, boss. Frank Sinatra. Old blue-eyes. Communism from a ketchup bottle. Laurence Harvey and—" first head-slap of the day. Tony rubbed his head and continued. "Seems that Scott Olson was the son of—" he was cut off by McGee.

"Frank Olson. CIA special projects scientist, heavily involved with mind-control drug research. Apparently he was dosed with LSD at a secret meeting, and a week later he threw himself from a window in manhattan. There are some suspicious circumstances surrounding his death. For example, the so-called therapist he was supposed to be seeing there was actually an allergist by the name of—" now McGee was cut off by Tony, who shot him a competitve glare.

"Richard Lashbrook. CIA-appointed. According to some of the crazies online, there is also evidence of a blow to the head, peri-mortem. McMulder's new girlfriend probably stumbled across those—"

Now it was McGee's turn to shoot Tony a glare. "Scott Olson, the son, is now living in Baltimore with his daughter and her husband. He sucessfully sued the government for $750,000, and then he dropped off the political map. No arrests, no car, no cellphone, only a home phone number.

Gibbs sat looking pensive. Then he nodded. "Ok, we're going back to look at the scene of the alleged kidnapping. McGee. Get the original forensics collected by the LEOs sent to Abby."

"On it, boss," McGee said as he picked up the phone.

"McGee," Gibbs said, more softly this time.

"Yes boss?"

"Maybe you should call Sarah and check up on her."

"Now, boss?" McGee wasn't sure what Gibbs was up to. It was the middle of a work day.

"Sooner would be better," Gibbs said shortly. His gut was giving him a twinge. No. He definitely did not like where this investigation was leading.

//


	5. Spooks

A/N: There will be a lot of Tim whumpage in this fic. Oh why do we torture those we love?

//

Sarah sat back on her cousin's sofa, clicking through the TV channels, lost in her own world. To be honest, she was thinking of Tim. He had grown from an awkward young boy into a multi-talented federal agent. He seemed strong. Comforting. Even if he did have the remains of his adolescent stammer. Also, she had to admit to herself, he was pretty cute. She was looking forward to dinner with him. It had been a long time since she had found someone who interested her. Being young and attractive, she could afford to be picky. Also being stuck at home caring for an elderly parent put a significant dent in her social life. She was just about to settle on a documentary about tribal warfare in Suriname, when she was startled by a knock at the door. Her cousins were out buying Chinese food, and she didn't expect them back for another 20 minutes. It was probably Pete. He always forgot something. She smiled as she swung the door open.

"Pete, I swear, you should have a GPS on your—" She was struck mute by surprise. The two men at the door certainly weren't Pete and Amanda. They looked like Feds. The dressed like Feds. They even smelled like Feds.

"Good evening, Miss McGafferty," the taller one said with a warm smile. They didn't seem threatening, at least.

"Um, hello," was all she could manage.

"My name is Agent Stone," he said. "This is my partner, Agent Williams."

"From what Agency?" Sarah asked, the buds of suspicion springing up in her mind.

"We can tell you everything you want to know," Agent Stone said soothingly. "We have a car waiting."

"I'm not getting into a car with a couple of strange men," Sarah exclaimed. "Even if you say you're Feds. How do I know you're for real?"

Agent Williams chuckled. "Ok Miss. You win." He flashed a badge at her.

"CIA?" Sarah snorted incredulously. "There's no way I'm going with you. You're a bunch of liars and criminals."

"Hear that, Agent Williams?" Agent Stone grinned. "She knows our work."

At that, Sarah started to close the door, but fount it firmly blocked by Williams.

"Listen to me, Ma'am," he said, suddenly serious. "We're here to take you to your father."

Sarah blinked. "My father?" She questioned weakly. "You know where he is?"

"Of course," Williams said. "We have him safely in custody."

"Why are you holding him?" Sarah asked wildly. "What did he ever do?"

"We're holding him for his own safety," murmured Stone. "We've had him under surveillance for some time now, and we've come to believe he's a danger to himself and others."

"Bullshit," Sarah spat. "He's a senile elderly man. What harm could he possibly do?"

"We'll tell you all about it if you come with us," Stone avowed firmly. "We'll take you to him and answer any questions you might have."

Sarah paused in thought.

"I'll have to call somebody," she said finally.

"No calls," said Williams.

"But—"

"Do you want to see your Father or not?" asked Stone impatiently.

Knowing she was beaten, Sarah looked down at the floor. Then she nodded resolutely. "I just have to grab my bag," she said.

Agents Stone and Williams looked at each other,

The plan was working as predicted.

//

Tim stared at the phone. Six calls. None of them answered. Of course Gibbs' gut was right, Why the hell hadn't he made her stay in protective custody. Of all the stupid—

"Hey Probaholic," DiNozzo came striding out of the elevator. "Your little honey bunny has a sweet pad. Lots of movie posters on the walls." He sighed in appreciation. "The Third Man. The Maltese Falcon. Kiss my Deadly." He sat himself on the edge of Tim's desk. "I bet you wouldn't mind kissing _her_ deadly. Huh Probmance?"

Tim shook his head. "There's a problem," he said, kicking himself.

"Problem, McGee?" Asked Gibbs, coming out of nowhere, as usual.

"It's Sarah," McGee said, wondering if it was possible to just shrink down to nothing and dissappear. "She's not answering her phone. I tried to track her movements by GPS, but the phone was turned off. It looked like she was heading towards Georgetown."

Gibbs gave him a long stare. "Your gut, McGee?" He asked finally.

"It's telling me that she's in trouble, boss," muttered Tim. "Big trouble."

"What we found at the crime scene suggests that you might be right," said Gibbs.

""Footprints. Just outside the garden gate," Ziva chimed in. "It looks as if someone stood there for a long while. There was a cigarette stub."

"Butt," Tim corrected.

"But what?" Ziva asked, confused.

"Never mind," Tim said distractedly. "Did you get the cigarette down to Abby to—" He stopped, embarassed. "I'm sorry, boss. I know..that you know how to…uh.."

"Go find Sarah," Gibbs said. He leaned in close. "Always trust your gut, Tim," he said gently.

"On…on it boss," Tim said, grabbing his bag.

"Take Ziva with you," Gibbs ordered. He sat back in his chair and took a long sip of coffee. He knew what was happening. Yes. And now it was time to go have a chat with an old friend.

//

Fornell sat on a bench, watchin the lights reflect off the Potomac. He didn't look up when Gibbs sat next to him, but he did accept the coffee he was handed.

"I come here whenever the amount of paperwork I have to do makes me want to kill myself," he said conversationally. "I think I would just tie a couple of bricks to my feet and jump in."

"The water looks pretty cold," Gibbs noted.

"Yeah," Fornell said wearily. "Maybe I should wait to kill myself someplace warm." He took a sip of the coffee. "Or maybe I'll just die from this battery acid you're feeding me."  
Gibbs smiled. Then he turned to look at his friend, his bright blue eyes penetrating.

"You're here to talk spooks," said Fornell.

"I'm here to talk about a kidnapped Navy Captain," Gibbs said.

"Stay away from this one, Jethro," Fornell warned. "Nothing good is going to come of this."

"I can't," Gibbs said. "One of my agents is involved." Fornell humphed.

"It's not DiNutso, is it?"

"McGee," said Gibbs stolidly.

"I always liked that boy," Fornell said. "He's got a head on his shoulders."

"You're damn right," Gibbs said. A pause. "I can't drop this, Fornell."

Fornell heaved a huge sigh. "I'll see what I can dig up," he said. "Maybe I won't have to jump into the water after all. Maybe I'll get pushed."

He stood to leave. "You might try talking to Agent Steiner," he said. And then, quietly, "Don't tell him I sent you."

Gibbs watched Fornell's retreating figure. And wondered.

//

_A/N: I'm thinking of writing a crossover between NCIS and L&O: CI. Would anyone be interested?_


	6. Langley

_A/N: Omg the season premiere was SO GOOD. _

//

Sarah McGafferty sat in a small, very bright room. She had been there for 20 hours, now, after being led through a large very bright corridor through the side entrance of a large, very dark building. Agent Stone had left her with assurances that they would bring her father to her. That had been 20 hours and 15 minutes ago. After around 5 hours, she had started calling out for help through the mirror that stretched across one wall. Her yells had become more frantic, finally dissolving into hysterical wailing. No one had come. Now she lay with her head down on the burnished table in front of her, exhausted, her throat sore and parched. She had to go to the bathroom. She dimly hoped that her Tim (for he was _her _Tim now, despite her having no claim over him other than some small childhood memory of affection), or part of his bizarre, seemingly effective family of a team would come save her.

"Why is this happening to me?" She asked aloud in a soft whisper before succombing to restless black sleep.

//

The men watching her shifted, some in discomfort, some with sheer boredom. One of the men, a younger agent, spoke up.

"Is it really necessary to hold her like this?" He asked, a little nervously. Agent Kirkland, the senior agent in the room, privately noted that the younger man probably wouldn't last long on the job. His type never did.

"She was becoming a nuisance," he stated tonelessly.

"Won't NCIS start looking for her, now?" Another man questioned. The younger man, who's name Kirkland remembered to be Dan Forrest, snorted.

"NCIS," he scoffed. "They're a joke."

Kirkland shook his head slightly. "I've heard of this Gibbs," he said. "He's relentless. I wouldn't be too cocky, son."

"So why are we holding her, then?" Forrest asked again.

"Leverage," Kirkland said and, to his credit, Forrest didn't ask again, only lapsed into a thoughtful silence. Maybe the kid had a future in the Agency after all. He'd already learned it didn't pay to ask certain questions.

//

Tony and Ziva pushed through the throng of people heading into the CIA Headquarters at Langley. The building's big glass archway hummed with the activity of the Agents and civilian visitors. Tony glanced sideways at Ziva's profile, noting that her eagle eyes were narrowed, taking in every detail. He shot her a grin.

"Feeling homesick?" He asked brightly.

"Excuse me, Tony?" Ziva said, her eyes still darting around the crowd.

"Well, this is the home of the great American spy," he said. "Just thought maybe your sixth ninja senses were kicking in. I bet Mossad headquarters is a lot like this."

"Not at all," Ziva said, finally looking at him with a slight quirk to her lips. "There are many fewer tourists. And no one is taking snipeshots."

"Snapshots," Tony said absently as they approached the metal detectors.

"We are here to see Agent Jay Steiner," Ziva said to the security guard. He looked at her with undisguised suspicion.

"IDs please," he said, and gazed at hers for a good few minutes.

"Is there a problem?" Tony asked, his voice sharpening.

"Mossad Liason Officer?" The guard asked skeptically.

"NCIS," Tony said, stepping in a little closer. The guard pursed his lips and then nodded.

"Turn in your weapons please," he said. They passed on through.

As they approached the elevators, Tony and Ziva were met by a thin, neurasthenic man who looked like he hadn't seen the sun in 20 years.

"NCIS?" The man asked in a nasal voice that fit his looks extremely well.

"Agents DiNozzo and David," said Tony.

"Agent Truelly," the thin man said, limply shaking their hands in turn. "Agent Steiner will meet you in his office."

"They sent us an escort?" Tony asked, smiling. "Did they think we'd stumble across the room with the alien implants?"

"That at FBI headquarters," the thin man said without skipping a beat, "and no, Agent Steiner simply couldn't get away to meet you down here himself."

"So are you his assistant?" Tony asked. "Messenger boy?"

"You could say that," Truelly said with a private grin, and gestured into the open elevator doors. "Ok Maverick, in you go."

//

Agent Steiner was the direct opposite in appearance of Truelly. He was the picture of ruddy health—broad chested, red of hair and face. He grinned at them as he shook their hands, firmly, promptly, and gestured for them to sit down.

"Boy," Tony said, unable to help himself, "your assistant should take some phys-ed tips from you."

"My assistant?" Steiner asked, puzzled.

"Agent Truelly," Ziva said.

"Is that what he said he was?" Steiner grinned again, more broadly this time.

"Is he not?" Ziva asked.

"He'd probably say so," Steiner said. "As a matter of fact, he's my partner."

"Oh, we won't ask if you don't tell," Tony quipped. Steiner shot him a look.

"You know," he said conversationally, "if you were my subordinate, I'd do more than smack you upside your head. I'd probably electrocute you."

"How do you—" Tony caught himself in time and settled on an enigmatic smile. "That's why I don't work for the CIA, Agent Steiner."

"I'm sure that's the only reason," Steiner said pleasantly.

"I have come close to electrocuting him myself," Ziva chimed in.

"I'm sure he wouldn't mind that one bit," Steiner said, with a charming smile.

"You know, as much as I love small talk," Tony interrupted their mutual glance, "especially when it's about me," he settled more firmly down in his chair, "we actually came here to ask about a case."

"Yes, I believe Leon mentioned a case," Steiner said. Tony and Ziva exchanged a glance at the casual use of their director's name.

"The kidnapping of a retired Navy Captain," Tony said. "Tom McGafferty."

"I don't believe I know the case," Steiner said. "Or the man, for that matter. I'm not sure why your Agency thinks I can help you."

"It concerns a project conducted by your Agency," Ziva said. "Project ARTICHOKE. Also known as Project MKULTRA."

Steiner shifted in his chair. "I know of them," he said. "Ancient history, both of them."

"Tom McGafferty may have been used as a test subject in one or both—" Steiner shook his head.

"I'm sorry, but those projects were both before my time," he said. "Nor were they in my area. And certainly wouldn't be relevant in any ongoing cases of yours."

"We were lead to believe that you could be of help—" Tony started, but was interrupted again.

"Agent Fornell talks too much," Steiner said, sounding decidedly less pleasant. "He's getting old. Needs to get laid more." He stood up and walked to the door.

"Sorry I can't be of any help, NCIS," he said. As he opened the door, he slipped Tony a card, discretely, palm under. "Look me up anytime you need an invite to a party at Area 51."

The door was summarily shut in their faces. Tony and Ziva left the building in silence. Sitting in their sedan, Tony took the card out of his pocket and showed it to Ziva. On the back of Steiner's business card, written in sprawling script--

_**Friday, 7:30PM**_

_**National Aquarium, Sea Lions Exhibit**_

_**Gibbs Only**_

_**-J.S**_

"Guess Steiner thinks there are too many eyes and ears in his own building," Tony said. "Paranoid much?" They drove back to the Navy Yard on autopilot. Each lost in their own thoughts.

//

_A/N: There will be more Tim in the next chapter, I promise! _


	7. Lure

_A/N: McGee centered chapter. Enjoy. BTW, which would you enjoy more…McGee starting a romance with Sarah, or McGee and Abby flirtage/something more. Orrrrrr McGee/Sarah with Abby jealousy. Let me know!_

//

Gibbs stood staring at the McGee and Abby's hunched backs. They were both typing furiously, their hands performing a nuanced dance, enchroaching on each other's space and skittering away, sometimes overlapping, always a precise rhythm of what to him appeared to be complete mumbo jumbo, but was he knew in his rational mind to be the product of mind-bendingly fast calculations and thought processes. They worked in compelete silence, simply content to be at each other's side. He thought about them. The yin and yang of them. Abby's dark exterior, the stain of her lips and the shriek of her music, effectively masking her natural inner joy and self-contentment to outside observers; Tim's outward sweet, slightly goofy innocence obscuring an will of steel and surprisingly deep well of bravery. Yin and Yang. Privately, Gibbs thought they made a wonderful pair, although he would never outwardly approve of the match. He knew that they had reached a strange limbo of friendship where Tim, once burned and twice shy, was afraid to have his heart broken again, and Abby was…well…Abby. Mysterious in many ways, but mostly too stubborn to admit what was staring her in the face every day. Their typing continued—both of them blithely unaware of his presence—grew to a blurred, frantic swell, and then suddenly Abby reached around and goosed Tim, hard, right on his left buttock. Tim shot in the air like a Polaris missile.

"What?! Abby, what did I do?" He asked, his eyes wide in profile as she grinned at him.

"Nothing," she said sweetly, "I just wanted to break the tension in the room a little. I've been watching your shoulders get tenser and tenser by the minute, and this is my third…wait…fifth Caf Pow."

Tim just stared at her.

"I hope you don't mind?" She asked, batting her eyelashes up at him.

"I certainly mind," Gibbs said from directly behind them, causing both of them to spin around like guilty children. Abby's face creased impishly, and Tim looked furtive and nervous, like a spooked cat.

"Sorry Gibbs-o," Abby said smartly. "We've been trying to track _Sarah's_ movements." The way she said Sarah made it clear that she did not approve of McGee's having a such a young, pretty female friend.

Gibbs and McGee had gone to the apartment that Sarah had been staying at earlier that morning. They had found frantic cousins, who had left for 20 minutes to get take-out and had come back to a neat, empty apartment. No note. No call. No sign of a break-in. Tim had lifted a left-partial index from the doorbell. It had been clear on the ride back to NCIS that he was worried stiff and trying not to be. Unfortunately he never had been able to hide his feelings from Gibbs. And Gibbs was worried too. He really, really hated Spooks.

"What do you have for me Abs?" Gibbs asked.

"Do you want the good news first, or the hinky news?" Abby asked whirling around to the microscope before waiting for an answer. "The good news is we got a hit on the print."

"And the hinky news?"

"The hinky news is that we're being blocked from viewing the results by your favorite letters in the alphabet soup."

"I figured," Gibbs said dismissively. "I apparently have a meeting with one of their goons on Friday night. Fornell recommended him, so he's probably a bastard."

"Gibbs! Language!" Abby reproved. "There's more hinky news, though."

"We traced an incoming call to Sarah's cousins, the Campbells' apartment" McGee broke in excitedly. "We traced it back to a cell number."

Gibbs gave him a particularly blue-eyed stare. "And? Tim?"

"The call came from a cellphone registered to Tom McGafferty!" Said Abby. "Her Dad! Maybe he came to his senses and called her and she went to go get him! That can happen, you know, in cases of mild alzheimers' or dementia. The patient can have momentary periods of total lucidity and often times—"

Gibbs glanced over at Tim as Abby rattled on about her senile Aunt Lucille from back home. He could see in Tim's eyes the same doubts that he had in his own.

It was all just too neat. And where there were spooks involved, things were rarely ever neat.

Why hadn't Sarah called Tim to let him know? Why had the CIA taken her? And where was she now?

//

Where was Sarah, indeed?

She was at that moment waking up in a different bright white room. This one had a small bathroom attached. There was a cup of coffee, and a bagel sitting on the table across from her bunk. Her head reeled, and she felt a wave of nausea that could have been a combination of hunger and whatever they had drugged her with. She could only tentatively guess as to how long she had been in the custody of the CIA. (And was it the CIA, really? What kind of government agency treated US Citizens in this way?) She hadn't been asked any questions, hadn't been shown to her father, she had had no contact with anyone. She didn't know why she was there. But at least there was food, and now a bathroom. And still that same mirror that showed her only her own, tear-stained face.

//

"So the plan was originally just to use this girl as a lure for subject 42?" Agent Stone asked Agent Kirkland.

"Originally," said Agent Kirkland, watching as the girl hungrily tore off bits of bagel.

"So what changed?" Asked Stone, watching several computer screens run through simultaneous databases. "She's still his daughter."

"A lure doesn't work on a robot, Agent Stone," said Kirkland, stopping one of the computer screens on a search result.

"So what now?" Stone stared at the search result.

"We're still using the girl as a lure. But not for 42," said Kirkland. Stone sat across from him and gave him a look. Kirkland pointed to the profile on the screen. "If anyone can complete Project JONAS, it's him."

"And you're sure he'll come looking for the girl?"

"If our psych profile is accurate," said Kirkland, with an unpleasant grin, "I can pretty much guarantee it."

//

_A/N: Uh ohhhhhh._


	8. Requiem for an Assassin

_A/N: A whole lot of the story that Steiner has to tell in this chapter is the truth, but a lot of it (the Frank Olson part, mostly) is just my slightly sick imagination._

//

Agent Gibbs sat down silently next to Agent Steiner, trying not to take an instant dislike to him. It was difficult. The man radiated good cheer and bravado, and Gibbs didn't like anyone who could keep himself cheerful while cleaning up spook messes and abuses of liberty.

"What were you thinking sending your clowns down to Langley in person?" Steiner said heartily. "What kind of crackerjack operation are you Navy cops running over there?"

Gibbs took this in stride. Still silent. Steiner shot him a look.

"You can tell that pretty Mossad officer that if she lets me take her to dinner I'll show her the secret CIA handshake," he prodded. Gibbs remained silent.

"Christ, Fornell was right about you," said Steiner finally. "You're not much for small-talk, are you?"

"No," said Gibbs shortly. It was the truth, anyways.

"You want to know about Tom McGafferty," commented Steiner. Not a question.

"His daughter thinks your agency kidnapped him," Gibbs said. Steiner shook his head, watching the sea lions slide through the water with a grace that belied their size.

"Unfortunately not so," said Steiner. "Settle back, Agent Gibbs. I've got quite a long tale to tell, and I tend to ramble."

"I'm used to it," said Gibbs, thinking absently of Ducky, and reached for his coffee.

"The name Tom McGafferty came to my attention around six months ago. In the Agency he is referred to as 'Subject 42.' And he is the result of CIA's own misguided faith in the power of subterfuge." Steiner shifted a little. "Back in the 50s and early 60s, the CIA, like the rest of the country, was caught in the grips of the cold war. Now, something you might find hard to believe," Steiner spoke sarcastically, "is that the CIA has always had rogue elements. Single agents, consortiums of people, in every level of power, who have some degree of autonomy from the Agency—ranging from agents who get too drunk on power and manage to slip through the cracks, to people at the top ranks who run whole projects without Agency supervision. The Agency actually prefers it that way. There are some operations that…prosper from certain lack of supervision. Given the labrynthine nature of the CIA's power structure, it's impossible to tell the true power structure. Many times it's impossible to tell who's who, much less who's legit and who's running their own ops down the sidelines. Maybe there are some people who keep tabs on that stuff, but somehow I doubt it."

"Comforting," said Gibbs.

"But not surprising," stated Steiner flatly. "Anyways, that little tidbit of inter-Agency knowledge will come into play later in the story. As I was saying, the Agency started running projects during the cold war. Mind control, mostly. There were a few objectives—resistance to interrogation for our agents in case of capture, truth serum, for use on the Reds, and finally, the big one: creating the perfect assassin. Someone who can be programmed to kill against their will, and then have no memory of the incident." Gibbs shook his head slightly. He could guess which of these objectives Tom McGafferty had ended up a lab rat for. Steiner took a breath. He had been talking honestly, which Gibbs thought was probably a change from his usual PR routine. It seemed to tire him.

"What a cock-up," he huffed out. "The experiments they did were inhuman. Volunteers from colleges, from the Army, from the Navy, from prisons. They were essentially tortured for weeks at a time. And in the end there were few results. Sodium Pentothal was developed as a vaguely unstable truth serum. Various other chemicals were tested. Electroshock and hypnosis were used by some bullshit quack in conjunction with something he called 'psychic driving,' which was basically repetitive aural stress and drug-induced comas. This was for the assassin project. He thought he could do it. And the real mind-fuck is that he suceeded. In the end, two men emerged as sucessful candidates. Tom McGafferty was one. The other one is now dead."

"Frank Olson," said Gibbs. Steiner looked at him in surprise. Gibbs sipped his coffee.

"Frank Olson," Steiner confirmed. "He didn't have a subject number, because he worked for the CIA. Anyways, before he could act out his 'assignment,' he was dosed with LSD, which resulted in his suicide."

"That's not how I heard it," commented Gibbs.

"I'm sure it isn't," said Steiner, "but I can't help that. They don't tell me everything, and the official story is that he killed himself due to an adverse reaction to the LSD and his…prevous involvement in the experiments. There were theories that a rogue faction in the CIA took him out before he could take out Castro, but I think that's a lot of hooey. For various reasons." Steiner paused again. A sea lion let out a loud 'gurk' as it gulped down it's dinner. The sunlight was dimming at the aquarium, and it was getting chilly. He pulled his coat closer around him.

"Tom McGafferty," Gibbs murmured, his mind churning with this sinister information.

"Tom McGafferty re-surfaced recently amid some chatter from our sources. Apparently a few of the other test-subjects have been experiencing an unexpected side-effect of the experiments. Early-onset senile dementia. This isn't a problem for the CIA. They're harmless. Either normal, functioning members of society or burned-out from too much ECT, hospitalized for life. The treatment didn't work on them in the first place. But Tom, he's different. I'm not sure what the specifications were of his first…assignment…but he never fulfilled it. They shelved the project mostly due to budgetary concerns and some noise that Frank Olson's family was making. But now…the Agency has reason to suspect that that Tom's wiring had gone faulty. His original programming has been, essentially, re-started." Steiner shifted uncomfortably against the cold….Maybe it was the cold. "We believe he's out to finish what he was primed for. That he's going to assasinate somebody. And God help us, nobody can find the man. Senile old guy, but he was trained well. He's completely dissappeared."

Gibbs considered Steiner. "I don't suppose you're going to tell me who he's programmed to assassinate," he said finally.

"I can't," said Steiner. And raised his hands to ward off protest. "That's protected at the highest level. I'm not even involved in Project JONAS. I'm just…privy to certain information."

"Project JONAS?" Asked Gibbs skeptically.

"That's what the cleanup op is called," said Steiner. "And no, I don't know what it stands for. I don't even know the name of the Agent in charge."

"If your people know the target, why can't they just remove him from harm?" Asked Gibbs.

"I believe every effort is being made to protect the man," said Steiner, "but McGafferty is the perfect killing machine, and he's a ghost. No morals, and the best training in the world. We don't know when he'll strike. The only thing we know for certain is that he will." Steiner stood. "I want you to know, Gibbs, that I'm only telling you this because I want what you want. I know it's hard to believe, but I joined the CIA to serve my country. God knows we've had our share of black eyes—and no one trusts us, for good reason, but I'm trying to right a wrong, here." He wrapped a scarf around his neck. "That being said, you try repeating this story to anyone, anywhere, I will deny everything."

"Naturally," said Gibbs.

"You might try finding Special Agent Foster Kirkland," said Steiner. "I know he's involved in JONAS. And I know he's been involved in…suspicious ops, in the past." Steiner gave the sea lions one last look and then he was gone, wending his way through the outdoor exhibits, his breath puffing in whispy clouds behind him.

Gibbs sat in thought. Tom McGafferty had been betrayed by his country in the worst way possible. And now he had to save the man from committing a murder he was never meant to commit. He had to save the man's honor—both for the old captain, and for his trusting, wounded daughter. A daughter was now in danger as well.

"God damn the CIA," Gibbs barked, suddenly, aloud.

//

Tom McGafferty sat in the darkness of his room. The air around him hummed with electricity from the motel sign outside. His mind was almost entirely obscured now. There were only four things, like file cabinets, that he could access at will. A name. A destination. A time, and a plan. He ate little, and slept in four-hour shifts. He accessed the information for the millionth time, and ran through it methodically. A name. A destination. A time. And a plan. They were all that were left to him. That, and the wait.

And it wasn't too long, now.

//

_A/N: More Tim in the next chapter, I promise._


	9. Rendezvous

_A/N: On to the Tim! Btw, let me know if you're liking this. Am I doing ok at my first NCIS fic? Should there be others? I'm needy :P_

_**Spoilers for Witness**_

//

"No….no…." As Sarah McGafferty's cries came over his voicemail, Tim's body jolted with anxiety. And then the electronic voice started talking. A white hot rage filled Tim. He listened to the instructions he was left, his hands shaking and his pulse pounding in his ears. He could only remember being this angry one other time, when that dirtbag killed Erin. He thought back to that time, to his hands clenched around his gun, how hard it was to not pull the trigger.

Across the room, Ziva watched as Tim turned white. Sick-looking. She raised an eyebrow and looked over at Tony, who was oblivious, playing Tetris on his phone. As Tim shakily laid his phone down next to him, she got up and sat casually on the edge of his desk.

"Bad news, McGee?" She asked.

"Yes…no…uh…no," stammered Tim.

"Well, which is it? Yes or no?" She prodded.

"No…not really," Tim said, striving for a calm tone and missing by a mile. "Just some financial troubles," he lied, knowing full well that he was a terrible liar.

"I do not believe you," Ziva said softly, leaning in. Tim tried not to lean back, distracted by her proximity. Ziva didn't really know the meaning of personal space. Or perhaps she was just too good at interrogating people.

"I can't help that, Ziva," Tim said, plaintively, his eyes clearly pleading with her not to pursue the issue. Ziva's big dark eyes stared down at him. That sat in that uncomfortable tableau for a few minutes, until Tony looked up and clued in to what they were doing.

"Hey, are you guys in a staring match, or what?" He asked. "McGee, I wouldn't bother. I'm down 20 bucks to her. I think she's actually trained not to blink. Some kind of Mossad thing." McGee held Ziva's gaze a moment or two longer.

"I with you would trust me, Tim," Ziva said softly, laying her hand over his. Tim stared at her hand like he didn't know what he was looking at. Tony raised an eyebrow clear to his hairline.

"It's not a matter of trust, Ziva," Tim said, dragging his eyes back to hers. "I promise you that."

Ziva removed her hand from his and stood up. "All right," she said reluctantly. "But I will be…concerned about you."

"I appreciate it," Tim said, sighing, "but it's not necessary._ I'm_ fine."

It did not escape Ziva's notice that he had stressed the "I."

//

Ziva shot Tim one last glance before she donned her orange knit cap and left for the day. It was 11 at night. Gibbs was finishing up the last touches of paperwork, Tony had gone home half an hour ago with some remark about being late for a dinner date, and it was just Tim and Gibbs left in the office, after Ziva's cap was out of sight in the elevator. Tim kept shooting quick glances at Gibbs between rapid-fire bursts of typing. Gibbs hadn't spoken to him all throughout the afternoon, which in itself wasn't unusual, but Tim still felt that the older man had something on his mind. He tried to supress his breath of relief when Gibbs got up to leave, finally, after midnight, and after the elevator dinged closed, he finally straightened up, and glanced at his phone. He had back-traced the number that had left the disturbing message on his machine, even though he had explicit instructions not to, but it was a dead-end. He just had to stick it out until 3:30AM, when he was supposed to meet the strange disembodied voice, and give it any information he had gathered. He blinked his dry eyes rapidly. Every time he had thought about telling his team, telling Gibbs, telling Ziva, he heard Sarah McGafferty's terrified voice on the other end of the line, and the voice telling him that if he mentioned it to anyone, she would be dead, and her body would be on his conscience. He didn't want that. He kept getting flashes of Sarah's pretty face drawn in pain. He winced and cracked his neck. His inquiries were getting nowhere.

If he didn't find something soon, Sarah would be dead. And it would be his fault.

//

The park was pitch dark at 3:30 in the morning. The ony light came from an occasional lamp illuminating a park bench here and there. On one of these benches sat a man. Tim McGee. He was looking particularly shifty, his eyes sliding left and right, trying to make out figures in the darkness. The smell of damp leaves was in the air. He heard footsteps behind him, and turned his head to look. A man sat next to him on the bench, letting out a slight, arthritic groan.

"You have what I asked for?" The man said, his British accent barely noticeable to anyone who wasn't a trained investigator.

"Who are you?" Tim asked, rustling his hand in his pocket. He was nervous. These secret rendezvous were certainly not his style, not in his repertoire.

"Now now, Mr. McGee. That kind of question will get you nowhere,"

"Where are you keeping Sarah McGafferty?" Asked Tim, his voice lifting slightly.

"She's safe. We haven't hurt her,"

"Bull," Tim interrupted. "I heard her on the phone."

"She phoned you under…duress," the man admitted. "She wasn't really hurt. We just wanted to make it nice and easy for you to cooperate with us."

"Are you CIA?" Asked Tim.

"That's none of your concern," the man said. "Hand over the info, and we'll take you to Sarah."

"I'll hand over the information once you take me to her," said Tim, "not before. It's highly encrypted, and I'm the only one who can break it. Now take me to Sarah, or you'll never find him."

The man was silent for a moment. "Pretty slick," he said finally. "I should have expected it from you." He turned and looked Tim in the eye. Tim was a little chilled by the lack of emotion he found there. The man was simply looking at him, with absolutely no rancor or irritation, no hesitation, no fear, no enjoyment, nothing. If this is what it took to be CIA, Tim didn't want any part of it. The man's lips quirked in a small smile. A smile that didn't touch his eyes. "Ok," he said, getting up. "I have a car waiting. My collegues did expect something like this." Tim hesitated upon getting up.

"How do I know you're not going to try something?" He asked.

"My dear man," said the other, "We need that information pretty badly. Else I wouldn't have resorted to the…technique we used to extort it from you."

"You could have just asked," said McGee, standing.

"That wouldn't have done, now would it?" Asked the man pleasantly. "How were we to know you wouldn't inform your collegues at NCIS? From what I hear you're quite a close-knit group." He gestured for Tim to follow him. "No, I needed some reassurance that you would be the only one in on this. That girl made it complicated enough, going to you. This whole thing is a damn mess."

"I'll say it is," Tim agreed, as they walked towards a large, dark car sitting in the dark of a parking lot. "From what I learned tonight, if you don't catch this guy, it will be…disasterous."

The man gave him a considering look. "You were only meant to find him," he said ultimately, unlocking the car, "nothing else."

"Does it really matter what I know?" Asked Tim, getting into the passenger seat. The man started the car, and let it idle in silence for a few seconds.

"No, I suppose it doesn't," said the man in a strange, flat voice, as he finally started the car moving.

The rest of the trip was spent in silence, as Tim considered that answer, and it's implications.

//


	10. Arrival

_A/N:I'm beginning to regret naming McGee's love interest the same name as his sister. Oh well, too late to change, now. _

//

They drove for hours. Tim had long since given up trying to memorize the turns they were making, and after awhile the street signs all seemed to blur as one. They were in an unfamiliar neighborhood to him, residential, and he wasn't even sure they were in the same state, although he hadn't seen any signs to indicate otherwise. It could have been that they were driving in circles. Tim simply didn't know. He wasn't tired anymore. His eyes were red and dry, but he could not have been more awake. The information that he had gathered was startling and disturbing, to say the least. If it hadn't been for Sarah, he would have called Gibbs immediately. Hell, he would have called Vance. The scope of this was big. Too big for him. He was essentially a little fish, swimming in a tank that was much too large and murky for him. He shuddered slightly. What if these sinister men couldn't protect their target? What were the ramifications if they failed? What if by not calling Gibbs he had unwittingly set into motion a chain of events that would lead to the death of another—not just another, but a very important man. Important to the country. How could he live with that? Was Sarah's life worth that to him? Was his own? The man sitting next to him could very well kill him after he divulged the information. He doubted the man would lose any sleep over it. He was a loose end. He just had to trust that certain…measures….he had put into effect before he left would ensure his safety, not to mention that of his friend.

They pulled to a harsh stop. The man turned to him. Tim was peering out the window, trying to notice any landmarks, house numbers, anything. It took him a minute to notice the man was holding something out to him. A blindfold.

"Put this on," the man said, his tone leaving no room for argument. Tim just looked at him, and then man reached out dropped it in his lap. It was then that Tim noticed the man had a gun in his hand. Well, that left even less room for argument. He took the cloth hood and put it on. For a blindfold, it was particularly effective. Even with dawn breaking, he couldn't see a damn thing. The man prodded him, hard, in the ribs, and as Tim started to walk, the man grasped his shoulder to steer him.

"Watch your step," the man said curteously, after they had been walking for a few minutes. Tim had been trying to distinguish what he was walking over. Grass, gravel, concrete, grass, and then gravel again. Fat lot of help that was. Then his foot hit something that he could only assume was a stair. Also concrete. Hooray for his finely-honed investigative skills. He stumbled a little up the steps, reaching out blindly for a rail. He found instead only the man next to him, holding his arm, lifting him up.

They seemed to pass through an enclosure, and then into a heated room. Tim was ready to say something, when the blindfold was suddenly tugged off his head. He looked around blearily. They were in an impersonally-furnished room, with a chair and a couch, both red. The floor was wood. Nothing hung on the walls, and there were no windows to see out of. There was a desk with a computer, and a door with several good locks. He looked up at the man.

"You might sit," the man said impassively. "We'll bring your girlfriend in to you, and then you need to get to work."

Tim thought about trying to convince the man that Sarah wasn't his girlfriend, but upon second thought realized it probably wouldn't do any good. He sat on the chair, and the man left the room, locking it solidly behind him, at least four locks.

//

Tom McGafferty sat. Time was drawing near. 48 hour countdown. He accessed the files that were available to him, mentally. It was odd. He kept thinking of someone named Sarah. The name Sarah. It kept popping up in his mind. It wasn't related to his mission, as far as he knew. Name. Time. Location. Plan. Nothing about any Sarah. He closed his mind to her as best he could. It wasn't important, now. It wasn't part of his mission.

//

Gibbs had just fallen into a doze when his bedside phone rang. It didn't startle him so much as irritate him. As a man given to insomnia, he prized what little sleep he could get. His hand struck out and dislodged the phone from it's cradle. He fumbled a bit for it, and finally got it up to his ear.

"Gibbs," he barked. He heard a female breath over the phone.

"Gibbs." It was Ziva. He sat up a little in bed.

"Go ahead," Gibbs said, his voice a little less agitated.

"Gibbs," Ziva said again. "I'm worried about McGee."

"Why?"

"He's not at his apartment. His car is not here, either."

"Why are you at McGee's apartment, Ziva?" Gibbs sighed. There was always something. And with this case, it was anyone's guess. And that feeling in his gut was getting worse.

"I was…worried about McGee," Ziva repeated, sounding more hesitant than usual.

"You said that, Ziva," Gibbs said, trying not to sound impatient. "Why are you worried? Tim might be…spending the night with a friend."

"I do not think so," said Ziva. She proceded to tell him about Tim's phone call, his reaction, and hers. Gibbs was silent a full two minutes after she finished the story.

"Why didn't you tell me about this sooner, Ziva?" He asked finally. He heard her take another steadying breath.

"I did not want McGee's trust in me to be…misplaced," she said. "He clearly needed to handle the matter alone."

"Well let's hope my trust in _you_ isn't misplaced," said Gibbs harshly, worried and hating the feeling. "Meet me at NCIS in 20. Call Tony."

"Gibbs, I'm—"

He hung up to the sound of her apology.

//

Tim's eyes were almost closing when the door opened again. Sarah stumbled across the floor and went down on one knee right across from him.

"Tim!" She cried, sounding both glad and dismayed to see him there.

"Sarah, are you ok?" Tim kneeled in front of her.

"I'm scared, Tim." Sarah was crying, a little. She looked the worse for wear. Thinner, pale, with the remnants of a black eye.

"It'll be ok, Sarah," Tim said, trying to sound soothing. She shivered in his arms. He glared up at the man in the doorway.

"You said you didn't hurt her."

"I lied," the man said shortly. "And now that you've seen her, you have something important to be getting on with, haven't you?" Tim stood, trying to make himself look as impressive as possible.

"First we're gettng her some medical attention," he said. "She's dehydrated. Hungry."

"No," said the man, and brought his gun out again, swiftly pointing it at Tim.

"If you kill me, you'll never get the intel." Tim said, refusing to be intimidated. He stared at the man, who stared right back at him, his expression unchanged.

"You're right," the man said after a few minutes. Then, with the same lack of emotion, he continued, "luckily, I know exactly how to hurt you without it interfering in your work." He swung the gun at Sarah, and before Tim had time to react, blew out her left kneecap. She let out a strangled cry and went down, clutching at her leg, blood spilling onto the barren wooden floors. Her face was gray and bloodless. Tim had let out a single, startled yell at the gunshot, and started to rush at the man with the gun, heedless of the consequences. The man with the gun gave him a look and pointed the gun back at Sarah. Her eyes were huge and horrified, shining with pain. "If you try anything, I'll destroy every bone in her body," he said neutrally. "I know how to make it last, too." He smiled a mirthless smile at Tim. "So you'd better get to work. The sooner you're done, the better. For both of you."

//


End file.
